


Maybe you can show me how to love

by thp_cara (TheHolosexualPan)



Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, Dresses, Fluff, Inspired by Fanart, Kissing, M/M, Masks, Not Beta Read, OR IS IT, Strangers to Lovers, Suits, hidden identities, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29496297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHolosexualPan/pseuds/thp_cara
Summary: Mumbo attends a masked ball and has his heart stolen.
Relationships: Mumbo Jumbo/Docm77
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Maybe you can show me how to love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vibrantlypastel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vibrantlypastel/gifts), [TheNightSkyObserver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightSkyObserver/gifts).



> It's more than a bit late, but this was inspired by fanart a friend drew of Mumdoc dancing together, masks and dresses and suits and everything. It was truly beautfiful and so I decided to write this. It's not very long, but it _is_ done. I hope you enjoy.  
> This idea is also the works of another friend, and so I want to take a moment to thank both of them for their wonderful ideas and for letting me write this.

Mumbo is nervous at first, and, logically, he knows he shouldn't be, knows that the dress fits him well, knows that Iskall is more skilled when it comes to tailoring garments than he lets on, especially when he can just go wild on the design, which, come to think of it, is exactly what Mumbo had done in hopes of something ridiculous, but fun. He hadn’t expected the draped fabric of black and red bejewelled with little sparkling shards of crystal painstakingly hand-sewn into the skirt of the dress and, now, as they enter through the ballroom doors, Mumbo feels ever just this side of too aware of everything around him.   
His skinning is buzzing beneath the soft material of his dress and the long gloves and thick skirt don’t really ward off the shiver of a cold, late winter night, not when Mumbo isn’t even sure if it is the breeze brushing past his shoulders or his own anxiety spiking into rising panic, but with Grian and Iskall on either side of him, holding onto his elbows and dragging him forward, there’s no going back.   
And then the doors before them open, the golden light from within being unveiled gradually, blindingly, its warmth accompanied by the sounds of music and of laughter and of joyous conversations.    
Maybe the normality of it, of people he knows, of his friends, all gathered together to have fun, should soothe Mumbo, he thinks, but something about the lack of any recognisable faces messes with his mind. Mumbo almost forgets that he himself is masked, no less a known stranger than any of the other hermits.

A hand pats him on the back and Mumbo sighs, some of the tensions fading ever so slightly.

He looks down at Grian and smiles before remembering that his whole face is obscured. Grian must catch onto the slight twitch of his jaw, because he giggles and waves his free hand, beckoning the three of them inside, and Mumbo barely catches the whispered encouragements, but the words make him smile nonetheless, just as Iskall’s elbow gently jabbing him in the ribs does.

_ “ _ Let’s just have fun tonight, Mumby. _ ” _

The room is built beautifully, and Mumbo is no builder, but Grian is, and he looks up at the decorated ceiling, at the chandeliers, heavy with gold, candles making the metal shine in a way that is breathtaking, at the large windows, at the grandiosity of it, and Mumbo, too, can see where the beauty of it lies. Bdubs’ touch shines through the smaller things, the small stage where some of their more musically gifted friends are laughing amongst themselves, some playing a cheery little tune or another, while some just playfully waltz across the stage, the flower decorations, the arrangement of the food tables lining the back wall of the room, but what grabs Mumbo’s attention isn’t the decor, nor the food, not the refreshment corner, but is instead the people filling the, mostly, free middle of the ballroom.

Not all of them are dancing in pairs, some moving in tandem in small groups, while other dance alone, but Mumbo sees the gentle swaying of bodies, their rhythm not quite matching up to the music, but something beautiful nonetheless, and his breath catches.

Before he knows what is happening, Mumbo is alone in the middle of the dancing crowd and, suddenly, he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. 

His lips twitch beneath the mask and, really, more than anything, he wants to join in on the dancing, but something about just dancing by himself feels awkward, and Mumbo is already quite a bit standoffish when it comes to such displays, and though, realistically, no one knows who is behind the mask, something about joining a group or pair instead doesn’t feel right either.

So Mumbo stands there, instead, alone and even more awkward than before.   
“Brilliant”, he mumbles under his breath, but he can’t even seem to get his legs to bring him to stand somewhere where he isn’t just sticking out like a particularly sore thumb, is paralysed where he stands, gloved hands digging into the folds of his dress, “Just brilliant. This is all stupid...”

It’s the anxiety speaking, Mumbo knows but-

His thoughts are interrupted by someone clearing their throat behind him and a hand coming to rest on his arm, just where the drooping shoulder pieces of the dress and the long gloves leave enough space for Mumbo to feel the warmth beneath a layer of fabric, the fingers gentle, so as to not frighten him, perhaps, but Mumbo jumps anyway.

He turns around, eyes wide, and they only widen further as they land on the figure of the man before him.

He stands just as tall as Mumbo himself, perhaps ever so slightly taller, which comes as a surprise, because Grian had more or less coerced Mumbo into also wearing a pair of small heels, but it’s the way he holds himself that has Mumbo’s knees buckling, broad shoulders fit perfectly into a beautiful jacket, it’s embroidered fabric subtle, but almost glistening in the candlelight. A dual coloured mask, its patterns just as intricate as the suit’s, is tied on his face and dark brown hair is swept back meticulously, but though he can’t see his eyes, Mumbo still looks at the holes of the eyes, can barely look away, and he almost misses the hand extended towards him once the man takes a step back.

The invitation to a dance is clear.

Just like before, Mumbo feels frozen in place, but whatever part of him is most impulsive, whichever corner of his brain makes him embark on crazy explorations of just what he can do with his redstone, his bravest self, its makes him nod, just slightly, but it seems to be enough.

The man chuckles and slowly grabs one of Mumbo’s own hands, his movements sure and elegant, and Mumbo wants to melt at the sound, even if he barely hears it over the voices and the mismatched music, which is, now, starting to come together in something softer.

Things change, then, when Mumbo comes close to the man, when he hesitantly places a hand on his shoulder, gripping into a strong shoulder, because he is pulled into a dance seamlessly, the man before him more so guiding Mumbo into a swaying waltz than actually leading the endeavour, and something about him, about the confidence and casualness of some of his moves, it’s just so warm and welcoming that Mumbo cannot help but follow either way, laughing gently when the man stumbles over himself after Mumbo lets himself be twirled.

They move together, coming closer and closer with every step, and just as the music swells, Mumbo feels the way the world disappears from beneath his feet, hands settling on his waist and  _ lifting him _ .

Mumbo feels his heart all the way up in his throat now, but he is giggling, and once his feet touch the ground again, he circles his arms around the man’s throat, leaning close and resting his forehead on his shoulders.   
He just can’t help the words that fall from his lips next, and he doesn’t regret them, his chest filled with liquid warmth and his heart light where it beats fast against his ribs with his joy.

“ _ Thank you. _ ”

* * *

They dance together until they can’t anymore, until they are a mess of sweat and laughter and comfortable, lingering touches.    
The man in the long, black and red dress suggests they go out into the garden behind the mansion, and Doc cannot help but let himself be led away, his eyes following the way the man moves, clumsily, but in the best of ways.

He smiles under his mask and almost stumbles again in his excitement to follow.

* * *

They both promise not to look, the light of the full moon only disturbed by a few scattered clouds sealing their deal, and before either of them know it, lips meet in an intimate brush of soft skin. It barely lasts a second and it’s nothing more than a butterfly touch between them, but though neither of them can see whom their hearts beat for, they lean in again and exchange another kiss, and then another and another.

The night passes like a dream and, once morning comes, the two are left wondering just who had stolen their breath last night.

Their friends would probably laugh for the obviousness of it all, but there’s fondness behind the amusement. Doc and Mumbo had been pining after each other for long enough now, maybe this will allow them to come to their senses.   
And it takes them just a bit longer until they find each other, no masks or looking away this time, and it is a beautiful thing.


End file.
